The Years That Followed Read Online Free

good-humoredly but turned to Pilar, as though asking her to choose between his wife’s narrative and his. “Mine’s the better story, though, Pilar, isn’t it?”
    And she’d smiled, rightly guessing that no real answer was required.
    Pilar has often earned a quiet few thousand pesetas herself before the contract cleaners arrive to clear up after one of Madam Sandra’s posh dinner parties—either those that take place in the vaulted dining room or outside on the terrace. Pilar has never been asked to serve, though. Madam Sandra employs young, slim, handsome waiters for that. Never women, and Pilar has always found that interesting. She wonders whether Mr. Alexander’s wife needs to keep her husband’s wandering eye under control.
    Like father, like son.
    On party nights, the young waiters arrive in the late afternoon and are gone by eleven. They are all silent, dark-eyed, watchful; they look like brothers. Pilar is convinced that they, too, are Cypriots, although she has never heard them speak.
    All at once, Pilar realizes that not only has she not seen or heard from Madam Sandra and Mr. Alexander over the last three or four days, but neither have there been any deliveries of food, or wine, or flowers.
    Pilar is becoming more and more uneasy. Perhaps they have suddenly taken ill. Perhaps they are suffering from food poisoning; so much food goes off so quickly in this heat. Perhaps—and here Pilar begins to perspire—perhaps they already made an arrangement with her to look after things while they took a long weekend away, and Pilar has somehow forgotten. Mr. Alexander and Madam Sandra have always traveled a lot—sometimes at a moment’s notice, but they’ve never failed to let her know when they would be back.
    Pilar is sure she would never forget something as important as that. But she feels a chill flicker of doubt nonetheless, and, just in case, she riffles through the pages of her notebook in a fever of anxiety. Nothing. She gets up from her chair and begins to pace. The golden rule is that Mr. Alexander and Madam Sandra must never be disturbed. That has always been clear. That is one of the reasons they live on the top floor.
    Pilar can feel her anxiety grow. This Tuesday is also the day for the window cleaners. Madam Sandra never forgets: she is very methodical in her domestic arrangements. She likes to be present when the men arrive, but she never stays. She returns as soon as they have finished, inspects the work, and dismisses them when she is satisfied.
    Pilar glances at her watch. She will have to call Madam Sandra, if only to inquire whether there is to be any change to the day’s arrangements. The window cleaners will be here in half an hour. It’s most annoying that Juan Pablo is late. Pilar makes her way back to the phone in the portería , easing herself into the old armchair, positioned as usual for optimum viewing of the foyer. She hesitates, then lifts the receiver and dials the number of the top floor. There is no response. She tries again. Still no answer.
    Pilar replaces the receiver and sits for a moment, thoughtful. Shehas no need to consult her notebook to inform herself of what she must do in such extraordinary circumstances. She knows all the residents’ preferences by heart. She will try a third time to call them, and if there is still no response, then she will take the lift to the top floor. If the door is unanswered, she has permission to use her key and enter the apartment to supervise whatever work needs to be done. But this has never happened; Madam Sandra has never yet forgotten.
    Their phone rings out.
    Five minutes later, Pilar is at the heavy oak door that leads to the top-floor apartment. She hesitates before she knocks, pressing her ear to the warm wooden surface. She can hear nothing. She looks at the door’s glass eye, imagining herself being seen from the inside: foreshortened, fish-eyed, rigid with anxiety.